Petra K and the Blackhearts

by M Henderson Ellis

  Soon the melody of the dragonka song began to have an effect on me. Such was its charm that I didn’t even feel myself go under—it just happened, as the song filled the garden—sudden and fluid, soft and numbing, like a scentless poison gas had been released in the air. First I concentrated on the feeling of contentedness that blazed in me. Then the song stoked the ember, fanning it until it grew and seeped into every part of my body. Just then I could see the words, even though the dragonka sang no lyrics: there was a kind of poetry everywhere—in every mundane piece of garden furniture: every rotten memory of betrayal and hurt had an integrity restored to it, every piece of grass and weed patch was ablaze with intricate design, and even the air—even its invisibility—was instilled with a unique prism of light. The notes of the song bounced around in my body, and I gave myself up to them totally. Feelings traveled though the air like spirits. There was happiness in front of me like an old doltish clown guffawing in my face; there was sadness, weirdly impish and charming, a black cape flying behind it like a flag. Then I was overtaken completely by the charm of such a huge dragonka chorus.

  But the feeling ended as soon as it began. There was somebody there, watching me in the garden.

  “DO YOU LIKE MY COLLECTION?” asked a voice, sleek and icy as frost on my neck. The voice brought me out of my delirium, instantly and shockingly. I turned around. There was Archibald the Precious, silently observing me, his pale skin shining in the moonlight.

  “It’s incredible,” I answered.

  “The one you are holding is the pup of a Newt Ball champion. A Javanese emperor offered me an island off the coast of his country in exchange for him. But there is no amount that would convince me to part with him.”

  “Aren’t all dragonka forbidden?” I asked.

  “These are safe,” he said. “Because they were born after the fever outbreak. They are clean.”

  “The others are clean too,” I countered.

  “No,” he said. “That is not true.”

  “This whole dragonka fever thing is a lie!” I said.

  “I brought you here to play, not to argue with me,” Archibald said, suddenly flushed with anger. “People think I am quite cruel, but as you can see, I have taken their welfare upon myself. I provide for them, I feed them in the way they are accustomed to. And all I ask is that they are available to me, for play. It is not a big request, is it?”

  “And what about the ones that disappear. Where do they go?”

  “Sacrifice is involved. A culling. That, after all, is how we arrived with these creatures. You see, we have a plan to perfect the dragonka. To elevate them beyond the point of pure beast. Can you imagine a dragonka that isn’t finicky about its diet? That follows orders? That is no trouble at all to keep? Not to mention the military applications of such a beast.”

  “No. And I don’t want to,” I said.

  “Well, it is not for you to concern yourself with,” he said.

  Archibald was dressed in his uniform. He seemed so adult right then; it made me fearful. His face had a metallic sheen, like he had been bled dry and pumped with mercury. There was something inhuman about Archibald. Also, he appeared unsurprised by my appearance in the garden. I realized then that I had been expected, if not led to this place.

  “Why was my door left open?” I asked.

  “Because I wanted you to see,” said Archibald. “I wanted you to discover everything for yourself.”

  “But why? Why didn’t I go back to the reeducation facility?” I asked.

  Archibald went over to the tank with the kiš-dragonka in it and put his hand to the glass. They appeared curious, buzzing around his fingers as though they were flower pistils from which sweet pollen could be collected—then they dispersed in a flurry when they realized their mistake. Archibald appeared to regret the deception, one that he looked to have practiced before. He withdrew his hand and turned back to me.

  “Because I wanted you to see what I am offering,” he responded evenly. The dragonka that had slithered around my neck had fallen asleep. “He likes you,” said Archibald, taking a small key from his wrist and releasing the beast from his collar. “Bring him inside where it is warmer. There is something I want to show you.” Archibald began to walk toward the Palace. I followed, with no more thoughts of spirits or emotions, the dragonka snoring quietly around my neck.

  We went into a large double door that looked out on the gardens. Inside, I found myself in a sumptuous room filled with soft pillows on the floor and automatons resting up against the walls. Crystal mood shards glowed on a table, which also held an army of toy soldiers, mid-battle, waiting to be directed. Other toys were hidden in the far reaches of the dark room, out of my view.

  “Welcome to my room,” said Archibald expansively.

  “Wow!” I exclaimed.

  “Shhhh,” he hissed. “They will hear.”

  “Who?” I asked, but Archibald just shook his head, not wanting to tell.

  “We can play, but we have to do it quietly,” he said, taking the small dragonka from my neck and holding it up to view it in the moonlight that shot through the window.

  “OK,” I said, deciding it was better to humor him until I found out why I was here. Perhaps it was the dragonka charm, but the effect of the Dream Chamber had worn off, and I felt like myself again. Archibald had better watch out. “What should we play?”

  He shrugged his shoulders, as if to invite me to present an idea.

  “Don’t you remember me?” he finally said. “That night in Jozseftown. You gave me a quince from your bag, even though you needed it for yourself.”

  “That was you? What were you doing in Jozseftown at night? Alone?”

  “I do that sometimes,” he said. “It is a secret I keep from them. I sneak out at night, looking for somebody to play with. But nobody ever asks. It can be so lonely here.”

  “What did you want to show me?” I asked.

  “Come, I will take you,” he said. And with that, Archibald the Precious took me by the hand, and together we strolled through the darkened corridors of the sleeping Palace. He was silent as we walked, which was good, because I was mesmerized by the wonders of his home. I had never seen such a well-appointed corridor: one could have made a comfortable home in it alone, with lounge chairs and velvet-covered walls. Paintings of past royalty lined the way, interrupted by Kina cisterns and vases. Eventually we came to a door, which opened onto a spiral staircase. We had to go one after the other to descend, Archibald having grabbed a lit candle from the hallway. When we got to the landing, he opened another door that led to a dark, dank smelling place. We were in the basement of the Palace now.

  “What’s down here?” I asked.

  “My study.”

  We entered a room that appeared to be some sort of laboratory. On the walls were illustrations of enormous hearts in various state of dissection, and in beakers tiny organs bobbed about in bubbling water.

  “What are they?” I asked.

  “Hearts,” he said. “We tried growing them, but it didn’t work like we wanted. You need a body for the heart to serve, or else it won’t grow. Hearts die if they don’t give life to something else. It is kind of contrary, don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” I agreed.

  “But my real playroom is through here.”

  “Can I see?” I asked.

  “No. That place is private and off limits. Besides, I think you have had enough excitement for one night. Let’s go back upstairs.”

  “But I thought you wanted to play,” I said, still curious about what else Archibald was hiding.

  “I did. But it is late. I’m sleepy now,” he said. “We can continue the tour tomorrow.” We turned back, went through the laboratory and up the stairs.

  “I am not sure I will be able to sleep,” I said.

  “Try this,” Archbald said, and drew from his pocket a small metallic contraption that looked like the motor to a music box. He wound the tiny crank. When released a slight humming came
, then the faint sound of dragonka singing in chorus. I had never seen or heard anything like it before.

  “It will help you sleep,” he said, putting the song box in my hand. That should have ended my first day at the Palace, but it didn’t.

  I CRANKED THE DRAGONKA SONG BOX, listened to its tune, and fell asleep easily. But in the middle of the night I was startled awake again. Though I couldn’t see anybody, I knew I was not alone in the room. “Who’s there?” I called, but got no response. I lit the bedside paraffin lantern with quivering hands, but it revealed no living being. Before too long, I cautiously closed my eyes. It was then that I sensed the presence again. I sat up, and felt a chill overtake me, though no breeze blew. But a gust had passed through me, like there was a lit candle in my heart that something was trying to blow out. The feeling was at once warm and clammy cold, provoking within me a powerful feeling of sorrow. I felt tears come to my eyes, and sadness like none I had ever felt before. “Petra K,” a familiar voice said. I held my head back so as not to cry, then before I knew it the feeling was gone. I cranked the song box and was asleep again in moments.

  Chapter 15

  I woke up early the next morning with the sun shining through the gossamer curtains. It took me a moment to realize where I was. It is not every day you wake up in a palace.

  No sooner did I rise than an aged woman in a maid uniform came gliding into the room with a cart loaded with breakfast food: poppy-seed rolls, honey challah, roast pumpkin wedges, and cured hams, with more juniper-flavored soda water. I ate heartily; it had been so long since I’d had a proper meal. The maid watched over me as I gorged myself, and when I had finished, she helped me dress, then escorted me from the room, through the Palace and out into the garden, where Archibald was already waiting. His face brightened at my arrival. The young dictator was happy to see me.

  “I am so excited,” he said. “I have such a great day planned for us.” He clasped my hands in his. I immediately felt their coldness. It was like holding hands with a corpse.

  “Did you eat well?” he asked.

  “Very,” I said.

  “You can enjoy such meals anytime you want.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It is my pleasure,” he said shyly. I wondered if he had ever had a real friend.

  “Is it just you and the dragonka here, then?” I asked.

  “And the Ministry of Unlikely Occurrences,” he said. “It was really their idea to perfect the dragonka.”

  “Can’t you tell me what that really means?”

  “I shouldn’t say,” he said, with a mischievous grin. “I was planning on giving you a tour of the Imperial Gallery, but I can show you all about our experiments instead.”

  “OK,” I responded.

  He took me by the hands and led me into the Palace. He opened a door and we descended into a different part of the cellars than the one we had been in the night before. We entered a long corridor, which was lined with doors. There was a strong smell present, something like sulfur and molten copper.

  Suddenly, Archibald’s eyes rolled back in his head. He swooned, then tripped and fell down the last step. I jumped to assist him. He pushed me off, and picked himself up—he was not hurt, but he looked humiliated. He hid his face from me.

  “It’s OK,” I said. “You can cry in front of me.”

  “I can’t,” he said.

  “Why not? I cry all the time,” I said.

  “I want to.… I feel like I should, but something is missing, I cannot cry.”

  “Everybody can cry!” I said.

  “I don’t feel sad, though. Just blankness. I can’t cry. My heart does not allow it.”

  “What has your heart got to do with it?”

  “It … how can I say this? It is not my real heart. I mean, it is my heart. I own it, but it is not real. I know it sounds incredible.”

  “It does,” I said.

  “But it quits on me. It winds down and just stops ticking.”

  “You mean beating,” I said.

  “No, ticking,” he said. “Listen.” I put my ear against Archibald’s chest. Indeed, I heard a ticking sound as though Archibald had an alarm clock rather than a heart.

  “I don’t feel like a tour any more,” he said.

  “That’s alright,” I said.

  “Shall we play a game instead?” he said.

  “Sure,” I responded.

  “This is my favorite; I used to play it all the time before I found my friends. It’s called Haints and Saints. You are the Haint, you have to hide. I am the Saint, I will find you.”

  “But the Palace is huge!”

  “That’s why it’s fun. We have all day.”

  HAINTS AND SAINTS? Only partly right. It was time to find the Haints—real Haints—and I had all day to do it. In particular, I wanted to find the one that had passed through me the night before, who had fanned such sadness in me. And so it began. I ran through the rooms of the Palace, throwing open any door I pleased, coming across luxuries beyond belief. The kitchen larders were filled with pheasant, wild boar, exotic truffles, and edible flowers. Ancient tapestries and paintings decorated the bedrooms, studies with silver-plated pens and mood shards everywhere. It was in a remote parlor that my eye caught a dark mood shard in the corner of the room. The shard was a dark amber color that quickly changed to black as I gazed at it. Only it wasn’t a mood shard at all, but a black piece of silk that lifted from its place and hung in the air, fluttering as though in a breeze. Then the scarf elongated, until it was the size of a cape. It fluttered toward me, then over my head and out the door, as though beckoning me to chase it. I ran out of the room just in time to see it vanish down a circular stone stairwell. I chased it down the stairs into a dank cellar corridor.

  Again I was apprehended by the smell of sulfur, molten metal, and incense. It was acrid and hurt my nose, but still the charm was too strong to resist. I spotted the cape, just before it disappeared through a door. I went to the door, to find it closed. Then from within the room, I heard an ungodly howl. And then I felt the charm, mixed in with the howling. Dragonka were behind that door, braying in misery. The black cape had led me here, for some reason. I turned the door handle, and entered a pitch-black room. The crying stopped as suddenly as it had begun, but I still felt the charm.

  I heard footfalls approaching. Archibald’s meek voice called my name, sounding like a ghost come to haunt me. His footsteps stopped outside the door. I heard the doorknob turn slowly: Archibald was coming in. I backed up and flattened myself against the wall. Archibald entered. He called my name, then, when he got no response, lit a paraffin lantern, sending an orange glow along what looked like a storeroom. A shot of terror raced down my spine when I registered what the light revealed. The walls were lined with dragonka. But they were not alive. They were in jars, preserved in liquid like specimens in some horrific museum. Archibald walked up and down the rows of shelves, appraising the jars as though admiring a much-loved collection.

  In a surge of revulsion I lifted my arm to cover my mouth, trying to restrain a scream. But in doing so, I knocked a jar from its place with my elbow. The jar fell crashing to the floor. The smell of camphor and death filled the room. I saw the small dragonka lying amidst the shattered glass and preservatives. Its heart had been cut out. It was then that I actually did scream.

  “Petra K,” he said, turning in delight. “I found you!”

  “What is this?” I cried. There were innumerable dragonka, all with their hearts cut from them.

  “This is my playroom,” he said. “I wanted to show you, but you found it on your own. These are all my favorites. I try to visit every day.” Now I knew what was happening to the dragonka that disappeared from the streets. They were not taken abroad as we were told, but instead met their fate here in the laboratories under the palace.

  “What do you want to know?” he asked earnestly. “I will tell you everything. I see you are upset, but it is all for the good of Pava. Just let me explain. Wil
l you come upstairs, have a poppy bun, and listen?”

  He did not wait for an answer; instead he took me by the hand and led me upstairs to the Palace ballroom, where he sat me in a huge chair. He picked up a glass of juniper soda and handed it to me. Recovering from my shock, I lashed out, knocking the glass from his hand.

  “Tell me why I am here!” I demanded.

  “Because I get lonely. Do you know something? When I was much smaller, I used to play Haints and Saints. But I had no one to play with. It may sound sad, but I could do it for hours, hiding and waiting. That was how I came to know the Palace so well. In time, I discovered places in the basement. Those were the best hiding spots. I wasn’t afraid, because I felt like I wasn’t alone. I began to dream of creatures, no, people living down there. The spirits communicated with me through my dreams. They beckoned me to help them, and I did. You see, there was a wall downstairs that was obviously concealing something. The spirits called me through it. All I did was chip away at it, and there they were. By doing so, I released them from a curse that kept them there. They promised to be eternally grateful. We have been caring for each other ever since.”

  “How do they care for you?” I said dubiously.

  “They help me with my sickness,” he said.

  If there was one thing I knew for certain at that moment, it was that the Palace was haunted, and Archibald was being made deranged by that haunting.

  “I want you to stay here,” he said. “The Haints are nice, but not fun to play with. I think if I ask them they will let you. What do you think?”

  I was about to open my mouth when I saw a thoughtful look pass over his face.

  “Oh,” he said placidly, as though his babysitter had caught him reading under the covers late at night. “Here they come.”

  “Here come who?” I asked, for I couldn’t hear anything, and felt but a quiver in the air.

  Then, into the room trod a stout, squat man in a centuries-old army uniform with a peacock-feathered hat. Behind him slinked a tall, thin man who appeared made of nothing but a shadow. Then came a low rumbling, which turned into an explosive clattering, and through the wall burst two warhorses carrying a chariot and a rider in a leather vest. Another two spirits sprouted up through the floor. Still others hovered over us on the ceiling, shimmering and quaking like storm clouds at night. Before long the room was filled with spirits from the past ages of Pava. They surrounded Archibald as though protecting him from me. One cradled Archibald in his arms, and before long the small dictator was fast asleep. Now it was just me and them.